Page 5 of The Fire We Make

“You fucked up my alliance with the Chapmans and now you’re acting like Edward

Scissorhands with board members!” Byron carried on, ignoring her. “I warned you, Joy. I warned you to get it under control.”

Joy smacked her lips. “Fuck Cleve. He’s been vying for my spot for years and you know it. And fuck Jermaine Chapman too. No one has ever put their hands on me and lived to talk about it. If you ask me, that motherfucka got off easy. Shit, I can marry someone else to get the connections we need.”

Byron looked at Joy like she’d sprouted two heads. “Who the fuck is going to marry a crazy motherfucker who stabs niggas with her shoes and cuts off hands?”

Joy was pacing now, her mind working a mile a minute to figure out how to right her wrongs. How to get that look of contempt out of her father’s eyes.

“Okay. Okay. Fuck the marriage. I can make my own connections. I took the bar a week before everything went down. I just need–”

Byron cut her off with a slam of his palm on the desk. The pens rattled, and the framed photo of the two of them at Joy’s law school graduation fell on its face. “Dammit, Joy. You’re not an asset anymore! You’re a fucking liability and you need to leave, because I swear to God if you ruin this for me… that’s yo ass.” His voice was cold and clipped and his eyes were colder.

“Daddy,” Joy nearly whimpered, her voice small. In that moment, she wasn’t the deadly and feared cartel princess she’d grown into. She had reverted to the little girl who would do anything to make her father proud. She hated that she’d been reduced to this. “I can fix this.”

“You wanna fix this?” Byron went to the safe behind his desk and pulled out a canvas bag filled with bills. He stomped towards her and shoved the money into her hands. “Here. Take this. Have Darnell take you to a bus stop and go far, far away.”

Joy’s eyes stung with tears, but she didn’t dare let them fall. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t fucking care. Anywhere. But you need to leave. I can’t defend you like this. Anyone else would be put down for the shit you’ve done, but you’re still my daughter and you’re clearly not all there, so consider this an act of mercy.”

Joy scoffed.

Mercy.

There was nothing merciful about what he was doing to her.

She opened her mouth to protest once more. To beg and plead if necessary, but Byron cut her off in a harsh tone.

“You’ve embarrassed me for the last time, Joy. I had my empire taken from me once and if you think you’re gonna burn it to the ground, you’re sadly mistaken.”

The door opened and three of Byron’s best and biggest goons entered. One grabbed the bag of money and the other two each took one of Joy’s arms.

She didn’t fight them.

“Get her out of here,” Byron ordered, then directed his icy attention back to his daughter. “I don’t wanna see you in my city. Is that clear? They want your head and if you cause one more problem for me, I’ll let them have it.”

Joy’s stomach dropped, her heart shattering into a million pieces as Byron’s betrayal set in.

Silent tears streamed down Joy’s face as they carried her out of her father’s office.

Chapter One

6 Months Later…

Joy’s arms burned as she continuously struck the punching bag in front of her. The leather material stung her bare fists but she welcomed the familiar pain.

“You think you gon’ be able to put on gloves in the field?”

Byron’s voice boomed in Joy’s head like he was standing right beside her. At the memory of her father’s coaching, she pushed through, releasing the pent up energy bouncing around in her veins. Though her sand and leather opponent was stationary, Joy took pleasure in the repetitive act.

She could be spun in circles, blindfolded, and hung upside down and all of her jabs would find their target. Still, she moved through each progression, appreciating the sense of normalcy she was able to steal from them.

Joy looked forward to her mornings at the boxing gym. For 90 minutes a day, she didn’t have to suppress her violence. Her strength and ruthlessness were once again praised and for just a moment in her day, she felt like herself again, not the weak shell of herself that she’d been over the past six months.

The longer Joy trained, the more the atmosphere of the Brooklyn boxing gym transformed, bringing back memories of the day that changed her life.

10 year old Joy trailed behind her father as they walked into the boxing gym. The scent of leather mats and sweat mixed with the metallic tang of blood made Joy uneasy but she swallowed it down. Showing apprehension would only upset her father. He praised her for being the stronger, more ruthless one between she and her older brother.